


May I Be Your Shield

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Túrin, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muteness, Porn With Plot, Rape, Rape Recovery, Soul Bond, This is not the NICE version of Daeron, in case it wasn't blindingly obvious the non-con is not between beleg and túrin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Instead of attacking Túrin in the forest, Saeros drugs and rapes him the night after the confrontation.Beleg responds appropriately.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	1. when the world is closing in / and you can't breathe

**Author's Note:**

> titles from "May I" by Trading Yesterdays. this...grew. as per usual. thanks to daphnerunning
> 
> the rape's in chapter 1 if you want to skip; there's a lot of violence in ch 2 and absolutely nothing but happy cutes in ch 3

It had been too long, Beleg thought, with a frown, since Túrin had come to the marchwardens’ hut.His hands, moving in an automatic rhythm to polish his bow, felt empty, absent of that rough hair to corral and braid.What a mess Túrin’s hair always was, Beleg thought, with a fondness that frightened him at times.It was so rare that Túrin would allow it, but when he did, he became so quiet and happy that it was like having a very large cat half-asleep across Beleg’s lap.Perhaps he ought to go to Menegroth, much as he was loathe to.Perhaps Túrin could find no excuse to escape, or perhaps—something else had happened.No—Beleg shook his head.For what could happen to Túrin in Menegroth?

There was a soft noise at the door, not a knock exactly, but something more akin to a scratching sound, like an animal might make begging for entry.Beleg frowned again and set aside his bow and stood, crossing to it and opening it.There was something about the sound that made his heart clench in a way he did not quite like.

Túrin stood outside, his eyes downcast.Beleg could tell immediately that something was very wrong.One arm was tight across his chest, while the other scratched at the side of his neck, a ceaseless, unpleasant motion.He did that, sometimes, occasionally, when something had particularly hurt or frightened him, and Beleg sometimes took his hand and held it until he calmed, but now there had been no one to hold it, for there was blood trickling slowly down his throat where he had abraded the skin until it broke.And his hair—Beleg suppressed a soft noise of horror.His hair had been raggedly cut short in bunches and tufts about his head.“Túrin,” Beleg breathed, stretching out a hand, hovering, uncertain whether he ought to touch.

His friend responded to the distress in his voice, taking two shaky steps in and going to his knees in front of Beleg, pressing his face into Beleg’s thigh and then staying there, trembling, his hands fisted in the front of Beleg’s tunic.“Túrin, what has happened?” Beleg put a gentle hand in his hair and stroked it, stroked him gingerly, and Túrin butted his head against Beleg’s hand.He was crying now, the tears running down his face soaking into Beleg’s clothes, though he made no sound.He shook his head a little.“Can you not speak?” Beleg asked gently.Another shake of the head.“That’s all right.You can tell me later, if you have a mind to.”

He waited patiently to see what Túrin wanted.He thought he would have stood there if need be until the leaves upon the trees outside turned brown and fell—though of course Túrin himself could not wait so long.Still, long minutes passed before Túrin slowly sat back on his heels and glanced briefly up at Beleg before letting his gaze drop again.

“Are you hurt?” Beleg asked him.A nod, then a shrug.“Can I see?”Túrin shook his head.“But you will not take harm if I do not look at it yet?”Another shake of the head.Beleg sighed.“Why don’t you lie down and rest a little?” he suggested.“A rest will make you feel better.”

Another shrug, but Túrin then nodded very slightly, and he took the hand that Beleg offered, letting Beleg pull him to his feet and carefully shepherd him over to the little cot at the side of the room.He curled up on it as he never had since he was a child, his knees drawn into his chest, his back to the wall.Beleg sat beside him and put a hand in his hair, lightly enough that Túrin could pull away if he needed to.But Túrin did not pull away; he leaned into the touch, with a soft, sad little noise, then reached up and tugged on Beleg’s sleeve.

Beleg kicked off his boots and lay down on the beside him.“Better?” he asked.Túrin immediately burrowed into him, pressing his face into Beleg’s chest.He was crying again, Beleg noticed, and he did not know what to do.He did not know what was wrong.He did not know what had happened, and Túrin could not tell him.Without thinking, he dropped a soft kiss onto Túrin’s forehead, and Túrin flinched and shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”Beleg pulled back immediately, an awful, impossible suspicion rising in him.He had never seen anyone react like this, except for some who had been taken by the Enemy.But Túrin had been safe in Menegroth, _surely_ —had he run afoul of Orcs in the forest?But he seemed physically uninjured, apart from his hair—Orcs would not have left him so whole.“Did someone—harm you?” he choked out all the same.

Túrin still did not look at him.Perhaps he could not; he often had trouble lifting his eyes to meet another’s gaze, and Beleg would not force him, certainly not when he was in such pain.He did nod.

“Who harmed you?” Beleg asked, trying to control the tremor in his voice, the one that wavered between sorrow and an old, cold rage running deeper than any he had ever helped.Túrin lay still a moment longer, then raised his trembling hands in the hand language the marchwardens used to communicate without speech, that he and Beleg had adapted for use when Túrin’s words failed him.It was not a full tongue, but it often helped, all the same.

 _Poison_ , he signed, eyes still cast down.Then, jerkily, _Rain.Poison rain._

Beleg’s lips moved as he tried to work this out; his breath caught in his throat as he thought he understood, because it was _impossible_ , he could _not have_ —“Saeros?” he asked softly, and he closed his eyes again for a moment, trying to control his breathing as the anger swept through him at Túrin’s final jerky nod and soft sob.

* * *

_The night before_.

Túrin opened his eyes into the darkness of his lonely bedroom in Menegroth.His body felt strange—heavy, as if he had woken in the middle of a dream, but he could not remember dreaming, and overheated, with sweat standing out on his forehead.He was hard, so perhaps he had been dreaming of Beleg again.He wished his mind and body would stop, or that he would grow the courage to tell Beleg, or, best of all, that Beleg himself would turn and look at him and fall into his arms.It could happen, couldn’t it?Even if Beleg was ancient and perfect and graceful and Túrin was—generously, an awkward human barely out of adolescence.

There were hands on him, so perhaps, actually, he was still dreaming.His mind seemed oddly far away.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

“He made a fool of me.”Sharp words, sharper hands.Nails raked across Túrin’s thighs, and he tried to squirm away, but his body was so heavy.“Besides, it isn’t like it is for us. _He_ would have tried to kill me, if Mablung had not stopped him.”

“You wouldn’t catch _me_ writhing around with a Man.”

“Shut up, Daeron, and keep watch.”

It wasn’t a dream, Túrin thought foggily, it was a nightmare.He tried once more to get away from the hands that were now feeling their way across his chest, and they flung him impatiently from his side onto his back.Túrin should have been strong enough to escape, but he couldn’t.You couldn’t escape in a nightmare, after all.He sometimes dreamed about being frozen into a great chair by a creature of shadow that laughed at him, and he couldn’t escape that either.But this was worse than that, because now his nightshirt was being pulled up, and someone was settling between his thighs.Heavy weight on top of him; hot breath on his ear.“Have you ever done this, Mannish whore?Not that it matters.You can’t form a bond, can you?” A soft, unpleasant laugh, and one that he knew only too well.

“Let go of me,” Túrin tried to say, but even though his mind could form the words for once, his mouth couldn’t speak them, and all that came out was formless white noise.

“Quiet,” Saeros said and slapped him hard, making him flinch and freeze, not so much at the pain, but at his own helplessness in the face of it.Why could he not make his limbs move?He ought to be able to throw Saeros off, break his mouth as he had done earlier when Saeros was saying such horrible things about Túrin’s mother, but he could only shift slightly from side to side as something pressed at him in a place that he didn’t want to think about.That wasn’t—it wasn’t _for_ —it was for Beleg, Túrin thought, scrunching up his eyes, if it was for anybody.Even if he didn’t want it, it wasn’t—there wasn’t anyone else.There wasn’t supposed to be.

But he couldn’t struggle.He couldn’t stop it.His body parted, and it _hurt_ , and he was crying.

“Ah—that’s good—” Saeros panted and grunted, hips rocking.“I’m surprised you’re good for anything.”

Túrin tasted blood and bile on his tongue.He wondered if he’d thrown up.He swallowed convulsively, not quite wanting to, almost preferring to choke, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

He shut his eyes, trying to pretend that this was one of his fantasies with Beleg, but Beleg wouldn’t be rough like this, wouldn’t hold him down and fuck him.Beleg would kiss him and touch him, would ask if Túrin liked what he was doing.He’d put his hands in Túrin’s hair and steady him, and if Túrin told him to stop, he’d stop.If Túrin just pushed at him, he’d stop, because he knew Túrin couldn’t always say what he needed.

A hand twisted in his hair, forcing his head back against the pillow.Teeth fixed in his neck, like a mark of possession.He wanted the feeling to go away; he wanted to carve a chunk out of his throat.

“Are you almost done?”

“If you keep asking me questions—” Saeros jerked out in a rough voice, “—it’s going to take longer.”

“This is dull.”

“Stop— _nnn_ —complaining.You’re the one who didn’t want to take part.”His angle shifted, and Túrin whimpered as a strange sensation twisted through him.His cock twitched against his belly. _Beleg won’t want you now_ , he thought, quite suddenly, quite clearly.If he could respond like this to Saeros, then wasn’t Saeros right?It wasn’t the same.He couldn’t ever be good enough, because he wasn’t born to be.

“Ugh.Open his mouth.All the noises are making me hard.”

“You’re not worried he’ll bite?”

“You said you’d given him a draught, didn’t you?”A pair of fingers pressing at his lips.“I’ll chance it.His mouth _is_ pretty.”

“I’ll turn him over.It’ll be easier.” 

Túrin heard himself whine softly as the intrusion jerked out of him.Hands on his shoulders pulled him upright and flipped him over, and he was being pressed down onto his knees.He barely had a chance to gasp in a breath before something was forced harshly into his mouth, hard and hot and choking.He heard Saeros grunt behind him again, and the pressure inside him was back as well.

He couldn’t breathe.He couldn’t _breathe_.He was choking, and someone was moaning, and Túrin was trying to fight, but he couldn’t fight because he still couldn’t move his limbs, and he was dim and dizzy, and there was this _thing_ on his tongue.There were hands in his hair and on his back. _Please_ , he wanted to say, _let me go._ The words didn’t make any sense, even in his head.Was there anything outside of this?Anything besides the slowly rising pleasure in his belly and the swell of the cock on his tongue?

Someone snarled out a Sindarin obscenity, and a bitter fluid burst across his tongue, some of it going down his throat.He jerked and writhed, but the hand in his hair held him steady until it trickled down the corner of his mouth.His stomach heaved, and now his nose was burning, too.Fluids dripped down his face.

A voice made a chiding noise, oddly normal and oddly loud in the stillness of the room.“You’ve made such a mess, boy.”

“Make him clean it up, then.”The hand in his hair tugged him forward, pressing his mouth against cloth.

“Lick,” said Daeron’s voice from a long way away.Túrin obeyed, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.Saeros was still fucking him from behind, and he kept forcing Túrin’s head forward, making him lose where he was and have to reorient.It was annoying.So was the dim, dizzy pleasure.It was annoying, the way a loose tooth was, as long as he didn’t press at it.He moaned softly, because he thought that was what it meant not to press at it, and tried to let it swallow him up.It was frighteningly easy to chase the pleasure down and give into it in a long strange burst of sparks.

Saeros groaned and grunted, and his hands tightened on Túrin’s thighs as he thrust deeply and went still.Túrin let his head drop, wondering why his eyes were wet and his cheeks so cold.

“Little whore,” Saeros said contemptuously.

“Hardly little.Come on, if you’re done, I have a song I want to write.”

They left him like that, half-folded into a sort of kneeling position on the bed.He wasn’t sure if he could move.He wasn’t sure if he deserved to move, in any case.So instead he stayed quite still, as the quality of the air changed.As his sweat dried and the fluids crusted on his skin.As the light of dawn slowly seeped in the window.His eyes shut at one point, and when he opened them again, it was full daylight.He felt disgusting, and he needed—

He needed Beleg.

It didn’t matter what had happened.It didn’t matter if he wasn’t good enough.He’d die if he couldn’t get to Beleg.Maybe he deserved to die, but he was almost sure Beleg would be angry with him if he died.Hadn’t he said something like that once?Túrin’s head still seemed quite vague, but the idea of finding Beleg was grounding and comforting.If he could find Beleg, he could—he could apologize to him.Beleg would forgive him if he asked for it.

That sounded right.

Slowly, he levered himself up off the bed.Yes, he’d go find Beleg.

No—wait.He’d need to do something else first.He never took care of his hair properly, and it was an awful tangle now.He couldn’t make Beleg feel as if he needed to care for it, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saeros's name may etymologically come from "Bitter rain" and I used it here because Túrin needed a way to refer to him in a language that's sort of a pidgin for the marchwardens.


	2. to keep you safe from the cold

Beleg had let Túrin rest.It didn’t seem fair to push him when he was so clearly worn out and still would not let Beleg see to his injuries.He relieved his feelings by making up a thick stew and putting it on the fire to cook, and the smell made the little hut feel warm and cozy.Túrin slept soundly on the cot in the corner, and Beleg waited for the stew to cook.When it was ready, he went back and murmured Túrin’s name until he woke.

“I’ve made you something to eat,” Beleg told him.“Do you think you can eat?”

Túrin didn’t look at him, and it took Beleg a moment to realize that his hands were fluttering again. _Sorry,_ he signed, over and over again, and Beleg felt his breath stick in his throat.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked softly, reaching out to touch Túrin’s poor, ragged hair.If Saeros had held him down and cut his hair like this—if he had _hurt_ him, if—but then why should _Túrin_ be sorry?

Túrin shut his eyes and leaned sideways against Beleg for a moment, then pulled himself back upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. _Sorry,_ he signed. _Poison rain.Husband.Sorry._

Beleg went very still, all the blood in his veins turning to ice.“What do you mean?” he heard his own voice saying, and Túrin was rocking back and forth on the bed, his hands forming and breaking apart, forming and breaking apart, _sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry—_

“Stop,” Beleg told him.“Please.Túrin, please.”He knelt in front of the bed, cupping Túrin’s hands in his.“Why are you sorry? _Túrin_ , why would you think—”

Túrin jerked his hands away, and Beleg’s breath stabbed in his own lungs in reproach, but he was only arranging himself so he could sign again. _Dirty_ , he signed.

“Of course you are, but why are you _sorry_?”Beleg’s voice was rising, and he had to stop and take a careful breath, because he could not bear to watch Túrin flinch again.“Beloved, you have no reason to be sorry that he hurt you.That he—” he could not speak.The very words would sting like acid.“You have no reason to be sorry,” he said again, very quiet, very gentle, as if he were coaxing a wild animal that had been caught in a trap.

Túrin made a sign usually reserved for the idea of items that were no longer useful and were to be thrown away—it had been one of the signs they had come up with themselves, less for communication while on patrol and more for every-day usage when Túrin was having trouble with words and he and Beleg were staying at the hut.Beleg’s mind thought all of this quite clearly in what was probably an effort to avoid processing the actual substantive nature of what Túrin was trying to tell him.It didn’t work, as he had known it wouldn’t.

“No,” he said, quite calm, quite cold.“That isn’t true, Túrin.”Túrin blinked rapidly, and Beleg petted his poor shorn head, soothing and soft.“Dost thou know that I love thee?” he murmured.Túrin took in a short, sharp, soft little breath.Perhaps Beleg had never used that form with him before.Perhaps he ought to have. 

Túrin was making that sign again.“No,” Beleg repeated.“You’re being silly, Túrin.It isn’t true.”He took both Túrin’s hands in his—gently, so as not to silence him, and kissed the tips of his fingers, hoping it would not make him think of anything he did not want to.Túrin made a soft little sound, maybe a hopeful one, at last. Beleg kissed the palm of his hand.“Will you eat, now?” he asked, and Túrin nodded slowly, shakily.“Good,” Beleg said.“Will you be all right if I leave you alone for a little while?”

A shaky, nervous little shrug. 

“It’s only that I need to kill Saeros,” Beleg told him mildly, and he dropped another kiss onto the top of Túrin’s head.“And I would not bring you near him again.”

Túrin’s eyes shot to Beleg’s face for a moment, and Beleg wondered what he could see there.He didn’t know the last time he had felt such an all-consuming rage, like a strange cold flood cutting him off from most of the world.There was only Túrin behind it; everyone else had failed to protect him, including Beleg himself.Túrin leaned forward slightly and bumped their noses together, then put his hand over Beleg’s heart.Beleg covered it with one of his.

“I love thee, too.”

* * *

It was past time for Mablung to return to the marchwardens.He always came to Menegroth thinking he would have a vacation and feel rejuvenated, and he always left remembering why he had stayed away so long in the first place.Beleg was wiser than he, Mablung thought sourly, for never coming to the damn place to begin with.He shook his head and then looked up just in time to see the very object of his speculation striding into the long dining hall.

Beleg wore a stained and ragged traveling cloak over a rough tunic and leggings, beneath which were his ridiculously brightly colored red boots.His bow and arrow were slung over his shoulder, and his golden hair spilled across his shoulders, not even braided, as if he had left in haste. He paused in the center of the hall, looking about, and, as Mablung, bewildered, opened his mouth to call to him, bellowed, “ _Saeros Ithilborion_!Stand forth before I _drag_ thee forth!”

There was a stir in the hallway, followed by a moment of stunned silence.Then Saeros rose from his spot, Daeron following like a shadow, and responded coolly, “We have not seen Beleg Cúthalion in Menegroth for centuries.What brings him here with no regard for courtesy towards his fellows, wearing ragged garb and with his hair unbound?”

Beleg gave him a mild smile that made Mablung go cold right down to his toes.He had not seen that particular look on Beleg’s face since they had cornered the traitor who had sold his own village to the Enemy.He had never seen it directed towards one of Thingol’s court.“I have braved the atmosphere of a place that marks an Elda as impolite for arriving in all haste for one reason and one alone, and that is to challenge Saeros Ithilborion to a duel to the death.”

A collective gasp went right round the hall. _What are you doing!_ Mablung wanted to shout, but the words stuck in his throat.

Saeros looked taken aback and a little perturbed, but he was not evincing nearly enough abject terror, to Mablung’s mind, and Mablung suddenly considered how few folk here had truly seen what Beleg was capable of.He got to his own feet, shakily, finding himself almost afraid of addressing his friend and said, “Beleg, surely you would not throw a challenge of that nature with no explanation?” _Please, my friend, at least tell us what has brought you here_.

Beleg’s mild gaze turned to Mablung, and Mablung did flinch, then, at the cold fire burning in his eyes.“I would,” he said simply, and then he turned back to Saeros.

Mablung thought he understood, then, and he felt the clutch of a great hand about his heart. _You fools, what have you done to Túrin?_

“I will not answer your challenge unless it be with swords,” Saeros said, a little slowly.“With a bow and arrow I am afraid a woodsman would have an unfair advantage.”A little smile hovered at the corner of his mouth.Mablung stared, aghast.Truly, had Saeros no knowledge that his death stood there in a pair of ridiculous crimson boots?

“Swords it shall be,” Beleg replied, still standing there, unmoving, unblinking.“Then you accept?”

“Aye, for you give me little choice.”Saeros tossed his head.“If you beg for your life, I shall not kill you.”

Mablung thought he was probably gaping like a goldfish. _You utter fool_!Beleg would take him apart.Beleg would butcher him like a deer.And whatever it was that Saeros had done, if it had brought Beleg here like this, Mablung realized, Saeros would deserve whatever was done to him. 

Beleg turned and strode out of the hall, and Saeros and Daeron followed.Mablung hurried to extricate himself from the table, nearly tripping over his own bow in his haste.This was about to become truly dire, but all he could think to do was serve as witness.

Beleg and Saeros squared off in the center of the stone path outside the dining hall.A crowd formed around them almost as soon as Mablung had set foot there. 

“Your bow,” Saeros said shortly.“I would not have an arrow to the back with no warning.”

 _Why are you making him angrier?_ Mablung still felt as if he could not speak, watching the minute, controlled motions that Beleg made as he stripped off bow and arrows, then shrugged off his cloak and laid all of them upon the ground nearby.He stood back up in tunic and leggings, a sheathed sword belted at his side, resting lightly on his brilliant boots.Saeros put a hand on the hilt of his own blade, then drew it, regarding the blade lovingly.“Is this about your pet Man?I shall serve you as I should have served him, then.”

“For every time you speak of him, I will cut off another finger,” Beleg said pleasantly, and Mablung wondered how many realized he was deadly serious.“Do you think you could best him in a true combat, Saeros?”He drew the blade from his side, and the red stone flashed in the pommel.

“Is that—” Beside Mablung, Daeron leaned forward.“That’s Túrin’s sword.”

“You believe you could best Túrin?Then you shall try your luck against his teacher,” Beleg said, and attacked.

He very nearly beheaded Saeros with his first stroke.Saeros just barely managed to bring his own sword up to parry and deflect the attack, but he gave a surprised little cry. _Oh, now you start to take him seriously._ Saeros counter-attacked, feebly, and Beleg knocked it aside and went in for an attack that surely ought to have killed him instantly, but he turned aside at the last moment, and to Mablung’s utter horror, he realized that Beleg was not even trying to kill Saeros swiftly.What could Saeros _possibly_ have done?Beleg did not have a cruel bone in his body.He was the gentlest Elf Mablung knew.He was kind to _everyone_ ; he let Daeron drive him away from court rather than cause a fuss.Mablung had seen him and Túrin coax an angry, injured wolf out from a hunting trap without hurting it, even when it put its teeth into Beleg’s forearm.

Saeros was breathing hard already, his face red with exertion as he desperately tried to fend off Beleg’s relentless assault.Beleg knocked his blade down again and again, then moved in, sudden and swift, grabbing Saeros’s wrist.There was a blur of motion and a spray of red, and Saeros screamed horribly.Beleg darted backwards again, holding up Túrin’s sword, now stained with blood.“Come on,” he said.“I haven’t touched your sword hand yet.”

Mablung watched as Saeros stood, eyes wide, trembling, as blood spattered across the cobbled stones.“You’re a traitor to your people, Cúthalion,” he spat.“All this for one Mannish wh—”

Beleg was a blur of motion, closing the distance between them in a moment, and Saeros never even got his sword him before giving another cry as Beleg danced back.

“You’re a much slower learner than he is,” Beleg said, his voice sounding almost cheerful.“I’m never seen Túrin make the same mistake more than once.”

Daeron was gone from Mablung’s side, Mablung suddenly realized.Where had he gone?Saeros’s face was blotchy with terror, but his eyes darted to Beleg’s back for an instant.Mablung looked over to see Daeron stooping down to pick up Beleg’s bow, and he cursed underneath his breath.He had never _thought_ Daeron could—but there was no time.His own bow he had not brought to the dining hall, but he had a dagger in his boot, and it would have to do.

“ _Down_!” he shouted, and Beleg dropped instinctively as Daeron fired.The arrow hummed through the air over his head and buried itself, quivering, in a nearby tree, which vibrated sadly in pain.Mablung cursed again, grabbing for the dagger and racing across the cobbles.Saeros, he saw out of the corner of his eye, was moving as well, but Beleg would have to deal with that himself.Mablung got to Daeron as he nocked another arrow, and dove for him.They hit the ground together hard, Daeron yelling curses in a high voice, and then they were grappling for the knife.Behind them, someone made a soft, rough noise.

Daeron was strong, but Mablung was the stronger.He smashed Daeron’s wrist against the ground, then pressed his arm across Daeron’s windpipe, trying to choke him out.“What did Saeros do?” he demanded, the words finally coming at his command. “Tell me, before I gut you here and now!”

Daeron’s eyes fluttered in terror as he strained against Mablung’s grasp.“You’re both _mad_!” he snarled.“He’s a _Man_ —they don’t—it isn’t the same for them, they don’t die, it’s not like—”

 _They don’t die._ Daeron wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

“Saeros didn’t even have to hold him down,” Daeron babbled, “Just a draught and he was begging for it—”

Mablung wasn’t certain if he thought before driving the knife through Daeron’s throat or not.One instant, they were struggling; the next Daeron was still amid a growing pool of blood, and Mablung was leaping to his feet and backing away.He turned to see that Beleg was wiping his blade on the grass.Saeros lay still on the cobbles, face down.

“Túrin?” Mablung said hoarsely.

Beleg’s eyes turned to him, and for one awful instant, he thought his friend’s soul was gone, wiped out in the face of some terrible madness.“You heard what Daeron said,” he guessed.

Those grey eyes blinked, and Beleg shuddered, then shook his head.“I must get back to Túrin,” he said.“He’s in the hut not far from here.I need to make sure he’s sleeping well.”

“I’ll handle this,” Mablung told him.“Go.Don’t worry.Just go to Túrin.”

Beleg gave him a swift, tired smile.“Thank you, my friend,” he murmured, and then he was gone.


	3. to have one moment with you

_Nine months later._

Túrin frowned down at the bent golden head working on her knees in the dark earth and shook his head.He reached out and touched her shoulder gently, and Niënor looked up, startled.Túrin described a zigzag with one finger, wishing irritably that the words would come.He wondered if they would ever form again.

The girl sat back on her heels and let out a golden peel of laughter.“Oh, the seeds _are_ crooked, I’m so sorry, Túrin!”He patted her head fondly.“I’ll fix them.”

“There you two are.”Morwen, tall and gaunt, with streaks of white in her dark hair that Túrin hadn’t remembered from when he was a little boy, came around the side of the hut.She didn’t smile; she never smiled.But she stretched out a hand to Túrin, and he took it, gladly.“Beleg was asking for your aid, Túrin.Go on, Niënor and I can finish up the garden.”She paused for a moment, then laid a hand briefly in his hair.“Still no words?” she asked, almost gently, and he shook his head.She nodded.“Ai, well, too many folk here speak when they have nothing at all to say.You’re a nice balance.”

He squeezed her hand and then trotted off to find out what Beleg wanted.The Elf was inside their little hut, seated cross-legged on the cot, holding something in his hands.He looked up as Túrin entered, giving him a sweet, breathtaking smile.Túrin ducked his head to hide his blush.He no longer thought Beleg did not want him because of what had been done to him, and it was all right that Beleg did not want him _that way_ , for Beleg wanted no one that way.

Beleg held out a pair of soft leather boots, stained a dark green.“Thingol provided some of the materials and I made them,” he said.“It’s your favorite color, isn’t it?Will you try them on?”

They were beautiful.Túrin turned them over lovingly in his hands, looking at the little leaf shapes surrounding the tops, surrounded by careful beading.He looked up enquiringly. 

“It’s a present,” Beleg said awkwardly.“There’s no occasion.I just thought you’d like them, so I asked Thingol for the dye and beading.Do you like them?”

Túrin pressed a swift kiss to them in answer and frowned as he heard Beleg’s breath hitch slightly.Still holding the boots, he made his way to Beleg’s side and put his fingers on Beleg’s face.Beleg shivered, his eyes sliding shut.“Túrin,” he said gently, taking Túrin’s hand, but he did not seem to know what to say next.

He _didn’t_ want anyone that way, did he?Túrin wished he knew how to ask this.Their sign language had grown significantly more vocabulary over the past months, particularly as Beleg carried his desires to Thingol and tried to convey how much Túrin was glad of it when Thingol agreed to bring his mother and sister to Doriath, finally, but the only way he could think of to ask seemed too intimate, too weighty.And too laden with old sorrow.But his curiosity was burning inside him at the way Beleg’s eyes darkened.He wanted to know.Surely, Beleg would be gentle about it, whatever the answer.

Túrin pointed to Beleg and then to himself and signed, _Husband?_ the question formed by the way his hands swooped at the end.

“Oh—no, no, Túrin, I wouldn’t ask that of you.Not after—”

Túrin’s ears flamed.Was he too broken, then? _Dirty?_

“No!Túrin, no.”Beleg grabbed both his hands.“I would have asked thee long ago if thou hadst not been so harmed.So violated.”

His breath came into his lungs in a ragged gasp.He shook his head. _Not injured_.Not anymore.He pointed to Beleg again and signed again, firmly, _Husband_.If it was _possible_.He was not an Elf. 

Beleg laughed.“I’m sorry, Túrin, I did not realize it was a request at first, I thought—yes.Of course.It’s you.It’s only ever been you.”He laced their fingers together, and love shone shyly through his grey eyes.“You must let me know if I do something you do not like.” Túrin nodded, then poked his finger at Beleg’s chest.“You’re quite right,” Beleg agreed, tugging him down.“It would not be in the least fair if I did not tell you if you did something I did not like either.Don’t worry, I promise I will.”

Túrin nodded again, firmly, then set the boots down with great care and sat himself in Beleg’s lap, hesitantly pressing their lips together.Beleg responded, just as hesitantly, and they kissed softly for some minutes.Túrin discovered he could get Beleg to make a breathy little nose and move his hips if he sucked and nibbled at his lower lip.He liked that very much.He also liked it when Beleg slipped his tongue into Túrin’s mouth and explored it carefully.

His hair was growing back out, and he had let Beleg trim and even it out several times over the course of the past months.He was very glad he had now, for Beleg’s slender hands carding through it made him moan and shudder, sent a delicious warmth running through his entire body.Abruptly, he thought it would be _very_ nice at this point to be able to press himself naked against Beleg, and he hurriedly began to tug at Beleg’s belt and tunic.

“Ai—ah—yes,” Beleg said intelligently, and reached down to help.Túrin tugged, rather impatiently, and then stopped as the leather hole of the belt stretched.

 _Sorry_ , he said, abashed, and Beleg gently kissed his hands.“Túrin, you _know_ I don’t care.You could smash everything in this hut and I would thank you for it.I will be very cross if you don’t put your hands back on me, however.”

He undid the buckle himself and Túrin helped pull the tunic over his head, and then scrabbled with his own.This was easier, because the angle was better, and in a moment the two of them were rolling onto the bed together, shirtless, and Túrin was able to kiss his way down Beleg’s chest and pause to lick with interest at his pebbled nipples.Beleg made a high, breathless noise, and his hand twisted hard in Túrin’s hair.“ _Ai_ , Túrin, I didn’t know it could feel—no, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Túrin worked at them enthusiastically, running his hands up and down Beleg’s sides and feeling Beleg’s hand helplessly clutching at his back.He paused for a heartbeat and then slowly moved his hands down to stroke at Beleg’s thighs gently.Beleg gave another soft, shuddering breath.“Túrin,” he said calmly, “I need us both to be naked now, or I shall go quite mad. _Túrin_!” Túrin had started laughing into his chest.Beleg actually sobbed at him, and then they were scrabbling at leggings and socks and boots, everything else coming off in a tangle that Túrin dropped at the side of the bed before sitting back on his knees to look at Beleg.

Beleg was as beautiful as always, and he hardly even looked perturbed, though his chest was heaving and there was a faint flush across it.His slim cock strained upward, flushed red as well, with fluid beading at the tip, longer and not so thick as Túrin’s own; the hair across his body was sparser than Túrin’s, as well.“How shall we do this?” Beleg asked, eyes gleaming avidly.“What shall we do—as I understand it we have quite a number of options.”

Biting his lip, Túrin tried to decide.He didn’t know what he wanted to touch first, and _surely_ he must make a decision; he could not sit here all day and simply _stare_ , though Beleg seemed not discontent to let him do that either.He was smiling fondly, and he wriggled a little, stretching so that Túrin could see the ripple of his muscles. 

Túrin ran a hand down Beleg’s front and watched with awe as his eyes went heavy-lidded and he rolled his hips up, straining towards something.Túrin wanted to take that lovely cock in his mouth, but more than that, he wanted something else.He paused, thoughtfully, then pointed to himself and then Beleg and pushed one finger into the circle of a fisted hand.

“You inside me?” Beleg questioned, and, when Túrin nodded, “Yes, I agree, I would like that very much.From speaking with friends, I believe we’ll want some oil to ease your way.”He rolled to the side and looked beneath the cot.“Here.This should do.”

Remembering how much it had hurt him, Túrin was a little hesitant, coating a finger with the oil and pressing it inside slowly, watching Beleg’s face for any sign of distress.Beleg was biting his lip, but he didn’t seem to be in pain.He rolled his hips back.“More,” he said.“Please.”Emboldened, Túrin pushed it in deeper, past the knuckle, and moved it slowly.“ _Ah_ —there—there—that’s—”He repeated the motion, and Beleg fisted his hands in the sheets and groaned.“More,” he begged again.“Please, love, I need you—I need you—”

Trembling, Túrin lined himself up, pausing to check Beleg’s face again.Beleg was biting his lip.“ _Please_ ,” he begged again, and Túrin carefully started to push himself inside of Beleg’s slick entrance.His lover’s head fell back against the pillow, and Túrin halted, concerned again, holding himself back from thrusting further with an effort.Beleg’s eyes blinked open again with tears at the side.“What must I do?” he said, an edge of something like frustration creeping into his voice.“If this pause is on your account, beloved, I will wait forever, but if it is on _mine_ , please keep going _immediately—_ ”

Túrin breathed out and hilted himself inside Beleg, both of them groaning at the feel of it.“Yes, yes, like that,” Beleg told him, his cock twitching against his belly.“Valar, you’re so thick, I’m so full, I’m—” He cried out eagerly as Túrin sobbed and started to thrust, rolling his hips hesitantly back against Túrin’s motions. Túrin put his hands on Beleg’s hips, caressing them as he thrust again and again, slowly at first but getting faster as Beleg moved with him, making a series of pleasured noises, going from words and endearments to sloppy meaningless sounds.It occurred to him through the haze of pleasure that Beleg might also like some direct stimulation, and he put a hand down to fist Beleg’s cock.Beleg’s eyes opened, startled, round, and gone black from their normal grey.“Ah—ah—that’s—that’s—” he stammered, and then he was coming all over Túrin’s fist, his walls clenching around Túrin’s cock.

Túrin didn’t quite come then and there, not certain if either of them were ready for it to be over, but his rhythm stuttered, staring down at the vulnerable mess that his quiet and generally dignified companion had metamorphosed into.He had done this to Beleg—Beleg had _let_ him do this.There were tears welling in Túrin’s eyes as well, and he bent down so he could kiss those swollen lips.Beleg’s hand went to his head again, not holding him there but making it very obvious that he welcomed him.He was so slick and pliant inside; he felt so _good_ around Túrin like this.They kissed and kissed until Túrin thought he was losing all sense of himself as a separate entity—he was joined to Beleg in every way he could imagine.

Beleg slipped his free hand down to interlace their fingers.“Please,” he whispered.“By Eru, Túrin, I need thee, I am thine, thou art mine, art thou not?”

Túrin nodded fiercely against his lips.They were each other’s, yes, that was _right_.That was how things should be.He used his own free hand to press his hand against his own heart and then Beleg’s.“Claim me,” Beleg whispered, “Spill thyself within me and—please, if thou wouldst—abide with me.I would be thy shield, if thou wouldst have me.If thou wouldst be my sword.”

Nodding again, Túrin deepened the kiss.Beleg was his, and he was Beleg’s, and it was almost silly even to think that because there was no separation, there was no—stars burst before his eyes, and he felt warmth claim him, felt Beleg claim him, felt Beleg’s love reach out to him as he reached back towards it—

He was lying on top of Beleg, and he could feel Beleg’s hand in his hair, petting him slowly.He could feel a warmth threading through him and a calmness, as if he were outside in the forest on a particularly sunny, quiet day.Beleg kissed the top of his head, and Túrin felt his lips and also the brush of his own coarse hair, just for a quick moment.He looked up, startled, and Beleg smiled at him softly, eyes brimming.“I have wondered occasionally what a bond might feel like,” he said quietly.“But I do not think I could have imagined this.”

Túrin opened his mouth, trying to ask the questions rising to his lips, but as always he felt them stilled, for the words still would not come.He shook his head.It wasn’t possible, for a Man—

“It seems you’re wrong,” Beleg told him, kissing him gently again.“Though I would not care even if it were not.”He brushed his fingers through Túrin’s hair.“And what need have we for words now, beloved?”

With a soft sigh, Túrin pressed his forehead against Beleg’s, acknowledging that he was right.The words would return, in their own time.But here and now, there was no need.None at all.


End file.
